


Soundtrack to Disaster

by floosilver8



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, F/M, Healing, Missing Scene, No Dialogue, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Sherlolly - Freeform, cleansing, mollock, shower
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 02:35:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1534457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floosilver8/pseuds/floosilver8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why Molly appeared to move on, and Sherlock didn’t at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soundtrack to Disaster

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this lovely artwork](http://shoreshroot.tumblr.com/post/44751677407/post-reichenbach-sherlolly-requested-by-idk-i) from 2013 by [Shoreshroot](http://shoreshroot.tumblr.com).
> 
> I'm late to the post-Reichenbach game, but I hope not unwelcome. I like to think this feeds the canon of series 3.
> 
> Title taken from the Arctic Monkey's song _[One For The Road](http://youtu.be/qN7gSMPQFss)_.

He propped himself up against the wall, unable to exert more energy into remaining upright. As she fumbled with the keys to her flat, he could see her hands shaking and it made his heart hurt to see her like this. She had risked so much for him and there was no guarantee that any of it would be worth it.

Her flat was nicely decorated, and warm, and felt like a second home immediately - even though it was almost nothing like Baker Street. It was so very _Molly_ though. The layout was basically a narrow corridor with rooms branching off on both sides, and one at the far end directly opposite the front door. He couldn’t muster up the energy to deduce what was behind the closed and semi-closed doors.

Her cat ( _Toby. She mentioned him on her blog. ...I wonder if she’ll write about today..._ ) greeted them at the door but quickly sauntered off when Molly ignored him.

Sherlock took enough steps inside so the door would close behind him and just watched her as she settled into “home” mode. She quickly dropped her bag and keys on a table by the door and hung her coat on a hook near him. He tried to focus on calculating how many times she had probably performed that exact same action ( _never after a day like this..._ ) but came up blank.

After the “fall” Sherlock’s body was brought almost immediately down to her morgue. And although everything had gone perfectly with the precise angle of the landing, and the Homeless Network posing as Bart’s staff, the whole ordeal had taken its physical and emotional toll on both of them. They hadn’t said a word since departing to take their places for the charade, and hadn’t slept for over 36 hours.

It was a comfortable silence, Sherlock realised during the Mycroft-provided chauffeured car ride to her flat. The longer it went on the longer he wanted it to go on. The only thing he didn’t like was that she also hadn’t been looking at him much at all. She had given him a hurried once-over in the morgue just before they left, but otherwise averted her eyes. It was oddly jarring to think of the fiery spirit she had a short while ago.

His mind taunted him with John’s stricken voice calling his name repeatedly. It made his guts churn and his chest feel heavy. _Sentiment_... John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson would all be safe because he died. _What does that mean about my_ life _? ...I’m poison._ _Obviously. Look at how wounded Molly is. What this has done to her too. No one has to worry about that now._

It took a few seconds for his brain to register that he hadn’t moved in several seconds and neither had Molly. She was still standing by the coat on the hook, not looking at him, obviously lost in thought. Her mind apparently came back to the present as well, as she straightened and faced him again. After meeting his eyes for less than a second she took his arm and helped him walk further into the tiny flat and straight to the bathroom. _First door on the left._

Without hesitation she started the water in the shower and helped him remove his bloodstained coat. He wasn’t going to be leaving her flat with it, and with a sudden realisation he felt sad to think he may never see it again. _There’s a lot I may never see again_.

He finally lifted his gaze to the mirror above the sink and suddenly realised why Molly couldn’t look at him for long. He _looked_ like a dead man. His skin was sallow, his eyes were unfocused and bloodshot, and one side was covered in blood from temple to chin. _Not my blood_. _Not blood at all. Window dressing._

Molly’s gentle touch brought him back again. She had pushed his suit jacket off and was unfastening the buttons of his shirt, then the cuffs, and then she pushed that off too. His torso almost glowed in the dim light of the bathroom as steam started to waft out of the shower. Slowly, she turned him around with gentle hands on his arms, guiding him to sit on the lid of the toilet. She knelt at his feet and removed his shoes and socks before standing and reaching out her hands toward him.

He just stared unblinkingly at them. _Molly’s hands. Two small scars from a bicycle mishap as a child. One chickenpox scar. Writer’s callous on middle finger (right handed.)_ Her hands left his field of vision to grasp his arms and pull him to standing, but he carried on cataloguing them. _Nails cut short. Cuticles pushed back. Hasn’t applied lotion in 24 hours._

A cool breeze on his legs indicated he was no longer wearing trousers. As he looked down at his knees he realised he was no longer wearing pants either. His brain registered something like disappointment at having missed Molly’s reaction to this revelation. The garments pooled around his ankles and Molly was coaxing (with some difficulty) one foot to leave the ground and be free of the clothing. He continued to watch as one foot was lifted, then the other. His toes nearly disappeared into the pile of the plush bath mat. _Purple. No, lilac. Her towels are all lilac too. Her shampoo is vanilla._

Molly’s bare foot, suddenly next to his own, disrupted his thoughts. _Bare calf too_. The shower curtain brushed his hand as she pushed it back and tested the water. Her bare foot left his side but her hands made their way to his arms again and pulled him forward. _Wet hands_. _Red streaks are not my blood. Not blood._ He stepped over the edge of the tub automatically, and she settled him in the warm spray of the shower. _Power shower upgrade in the last five years_. _41 degrees Celsius. 105.8 degrees Fahrenheit. 314.15 degrees Kelvin. Molly isn’t wearing clothes. Molly isn’t..._

She wasn’t wearing clothes, and her long hair was dampening by the second as the water hit her as well. Where it had been voluminous a minute ago, now it was slick and sticking to her skin. It was long enough to cover the entirety of her petite breasts. _Approximate weight .90kg, or 32oz, or 2lbs. Not ovulating or lactating. Between an A and B cup. Areola 2.5cm in diameter, 7.85cm in circumference._

His eyes closed automatically when her fingers began messaging shampoo into his scalp. The not-blood dripped down her arms and off her elbows. _Vanilla. Phosphate free..._ His mind went blissfully blank.He kept his eyes closed when she stopped massaging and turned him around to rinse the soap out of his hair. Her palms made wide strokes over his skull whisking away the shampoo and excess water. The sound of the shower suddenly registered as the only noise in the room, even drowning out their breathing. _Ha. Drowning. Shower_. He stared unseeing at his toes again.

Molly had finished cleaning his hair. A warm and damp flannel met his cheek and fell away. And then it happened again. And again. And with each stroke, Sherlock let his gaze trail up from her body, to her shoulders, to her mouth, to her eyes. She was concentrating on removing all of the non-blood from his face. Her eyebrows knitted, her teeth worrying her bottom lip. _Worry. She’s worried. About me._

His tired arms wound around her waist, brining her skin to his. The shower had been pleasantly warm, but the feel of her skin was even warmer. He buried his nose against her neck and held her firmly. The ache in his arms was ignored because the feel of Molly against him cured everything. He sighed contentedly and squeezed her tighter. Her arms finally wrapped around his shoulders, holding him just as tightly. Her forehead rested on his chest.

The warm water washed over them both. She stroked his back, the wet flannel still held in one hand. They both squeezed each other again at the same time and pulled away slightly. Their eyes finally met and held. Her eyebrows relaxed. He took a cleansing breath. _I’m alive_.

She brought the flannel to his face again. Their gaze broke only so she could continue concentrating on cleaning him. He blocked most of the shower spray from hitting her directly in the face. She wiped at his neck, and behind his ears. She gripped his biceps and nodded.

He turned them both around so her back was to the shower spray. He released his grip on her body only to gently tilt her head back and rinse her hair. Her hands rested on his hips. He made sure water didn’t drip in her eyes. He held her cheeks in his hands and studied her face. She watched him calmly. They breathed deeply. His hands dropped to her shoulders. A faint smile graced her lips. _Not too small_.

The water stopped and she stepped out of the tub. The cooler air met his body, brining goose flesh to his skin. He stared at the wall, reverting back to his previous, almost catatonic, state. Her face, kind and pink from the heat of the shower, brought him back to the world. She wrapped a lilac towel around his shoulders, rubbing broad strokes across his back. Her torso was cocooned in a lilac towel of her own. His feet met the plush bath mat again. Her strokes with the towel travelled the length of his body, wiping away more than just the excess water. The tiniest bits of stress left him as well.

She wrapped his towel around his waist, tucking in the loose end as best as she could. She dried his hair with her hair dryer, again massaging his scalp with her fingers. She turned the dryer on herself and stood in front of the mostly foggy mirror. Sherlock watched her arm and shoulder muscles dance under her skin. _Bicep, tricep, deltoid, infraspinatus, supraspinatus, trapzius...teres major, teres minor, rhomboid major, latissiumus dorsi..._

The sudden quiet after the din of the hair dryer shook him. He met her eyes again and their hands clasped with fingers intertwined. She took a step backward, silently urging him to follow. She didn’t turn around to face forward as she led him to her bedroom. _The door at the end of the corridor_. His breath became laboured at the thought but he didn’t know why. He wasn’t to know then that he would dream of this walk down the length of her flat for years to come. It would always bring with it a constricting of his chest, among other things.

Her bedroom was large and mostly dark. The sun had long since set but he imagined that the large window above her bed would cast a wonderfully warm glow in the morning. She never let go of his hand as she guided him further into her room. She finally stopped along the side of her bed. She bit her bottom lip as her free hand worried the edge of the towel around her torso. With a long breath it fell to the floor, her eyes never leaving his. After a beat, her free hand rose again and met the tucked corner of the towel at his waist. His arm clenched unconsciously by his side but he didn’t move, or look away from her as his own lilac towel hit the floor.

While they had both been completely nude together not five minutes earlier, this was somehow more significant. This was an unnecessary shedding of protective layers that did not go unnoticed by either of them. She was offering her body to him, if he would take it. And yet words still went unspoken.

She took another step backward, and shifted on to the bed, guiding him to follow. They settled themselves under the duvet, the cool sheets warming gradually with their body heat. They lay facing each other, hands still clasped between them. Her pillows were the same firmness that he preferred on the rare occasions in which he slept.

He let go of her hand to close the short distance between them and take her face in his hands. He pressed his forehead to hers, knowing that he would not control himself if he did anything further. _Moriarty underestimated her. Underestimated my feelings for her. Sentiment._

With a firm kiss to her cheek again he rolled on his other side, putting his back to her. Once settled he reached back for her hand and pulled her closer. He would not be taking her up on her silent offer tonight, but he still wanted her closeness and her affection. She placed a kiss between his shoulder blades and settled herself again. They fell asleep soon after, finally completely overcome by the exhaustion of the day.

-

The message on her phone at 5am woke them. Mycroft’s car was downstairs. It was time.

He dressed in clothes that were not his own. She wrapped herself in her dressing gown, arms clutching tightly around her body. They stood for a moment in the corridor, just by the front door. His eyes drank her in and a smile formed at the corners of his lips. He held her face in his hands. Her eyebrows knitted together. He leaned his face down level with hers and pressed his lips to her cheek.

He began to straighten but her hands shot out and grabbed his shirt, holding him in place. He stared at her for a moment, unable to breathe properly. Slowly, she rose up on the balls of her feet and pressed her lips to his cheek. His eyes closed at the touch and he inhaled deeply. They both straightened and she stepped away. It took all of his willpower to turn around and walk out the door.

**Author's Note:**

> A headcanon has been floating around that Molly and Sherlock _must_ have had scared/healing sex after TRF. I couldn't reconcile that because I don't think Molly would have "moved on" to Tom if that door had been opened. Things between her and Sherlock had to be closed for her to seek out someone else and let it go so far as an engagement. I also think TRF day was a huge emotional eye-opener for Sherlock. That's why we get feelings!lock in series 3.


End file.
